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We were three months from our wedding. The venue was booked, the exorbitant deposit paid. Elise had been in her element: designing monograms, sampling cakes, commanding a bridal army. I was the supportive fiancé, happy to write checks and show up for tastings. The red flags, in retrospect, were there, but I’d draped them in the decorative bunting of "wedding stress." She’d get icy if I mentioned my mom in conversations with vendors. "Let's not dwell on the past, sweetie," she’d say, squeezing my arm a little too tight. She’d rearranged my apartment, boxing up my "college-dorm" photos (which included pictures with my parents) and replacing them with sleek, impersonal art. When I pushed back, she’d tear up. "I just want our home to feel like *our home, not a museum. Are you not over it yet?"* She weaponized therapy-speak. My boundary was "holding onto grief." My desire to keep a few cherished items was "hoarding tendencies."